


Five People Gabe Didn't Sleep With

by mwestbelle



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(Originally posted March 17, 2008)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Five People Gabe Didn't Sleep With

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally posted March 17, 2008)

**I. Mikeyway**

And not for lack of trying. He fucking _wooed_ that boy (well, in his mostly-drunken way, lots of sloppy kisses and slow grinds and lazy smiles, party after party), and, really, he’d kind of heard that Mikeyway was something of a slut for guys on the scene.

“Hey, hey, Mikeyway.” He curls his fingers around the cut of Mikey’s hip, leaning in to whisper with hot, boozy breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mikey’s a little flushed, from drink or from the slow grind of their hips together, whatever, and he kind of half nods, biting his lip. Gabe grins and ducks down to kiss his forehead, smacking and dry, then backs off to grab his hand and pull him away from the crowds, friends and friends of friends with glasses and glassy eyes.

Back the hall, and he pauses to press Mikeyway into the wall, kiss him good and thoroughly, starts to work a thigh between his, but instead of Mikey pressed hot and needy against him he feels…buzzing?

“Shit.” Mikey scrambles in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Laughter high and nasal and loud from the earpiece, loud enough that Gabe can hear it, even when Mikey presses the phone against his head. “Where are you? Hey, _hey_ , listen. Where are you?” He pauses. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m coming.” He glances up at Gabe. “My brother. I have to go.”

Gabe leans against the wall, buzzing and aching. _Fuck._

 **II. Vicky-T**

It is wrong, he knows, to have a favored acolyte. All must come to him, the fair youths and maids, come to him and _through_ him to their master. But of all of them, all the lithe bodies on display for his (and, through him, his master‘s) pleasure, he savors hers most. Cannot tear his eyes away from creamy thighs that show through careful slits, finds himself remembering the perfect swell of her breast and the laughter in her dark eyes. It is the laughter, he thinks, that is truly his downfall. All of them watch him, for he is the conduit, their High Priest, and their eyes are filled with want, longing, devotion. But not hers. She looks at him through her lashes when she kneels as he enters the room, and there is a smile quirking her lips and a secret jest in her eyes.

He does not touch her. He has heard that the others shun her, mocking her for his inattention. They think of it as a punishment, a show of displeasure, that he does not run his large hands over her soft curves, never accepts the gifts she lays at his feet (for his master). They laugh, but they are all fools. For everything that comes to him must pass through him to his master. His bedchamber has two doors, and only he may exit through the same one he entered.

It is wrong, he knows, for it is the greatest honor an acolyte can dream of, to be taken to his bed. But he _likes_ her, in a way different than the hot lust he gives to the others, and could he not see her smile at every new morn he does not know how he could continue. So he keeps her from his bed and, through this, the pit.

 **III. Patrick**

Patrick laughs, and Gabe smiles.

“See you after the set?” Patrick grins, brim of his hat slipping down over one of his eyes, making him look almost shy. What a joke.

“You’re not getting rid of me.” Gabe bends, folding pretty much in half to kiss his cheek. Patrick flushes, but no one’s going to notice any difference under the heat of the stage lights. Gabe flicks the brim and Patrick ducks protectively away, then heads down the hallway for his last warm-ups, laughing to himself.

“Don’t.” Gabe laughs, loud enough that a couple techs near the doors at the end turn back to look at them.

“What, you his mom now, too?” But Pete doesn’t laugh in response, or make a “your mom” joke like he’s supposed to. He just tilts his head a little, shoulders tight enough to look stiff even through his hoodie.

“I’m serious, man. Don’t.” And Gabe grabs him by the shoulder. Pete looks like he’s going to shrug him off for a second, then allows himself to be turned, expression unreadable but dark.

“Tell him I had to ditch, okay?” Pete blinks, then nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell him.”

 **IV. Spencer**

A lot of guys have rules about sloppy seconds, not sleeping with friends, and not sleeping with people who’ve slept with who you’ve slept with. Gabe thinks those rules are fucking idiotic, because, _why_ , seriously. Besides, it’s not like that would even work given the incestuous amorphic blob of pheromones that he calls his friends.

He fucked Jon back when he was still just one of Bill’s techs (“Jon-ny Walker, he‘s pretty _fucking_ awesome, aren‘t you, Jonny?”) It hasn’t stopped him from pulling Ryan into some random backroom at the VMAs, or plying Brendon with alcohol and fruit roll-ups, getting him onto the bus when everyone else was still at dinner. Travie makes some comment about him going for a full set, and he just punches him, because it’s not like he _planned_ to work his way through Panic at the Disco, it just happens, you know?

But when he’s wandering around the lot, thinking that he might really be into some nice hips (not that he doesn’t love Bill’s but, man, you could cut yourself on those fuckers) he sees Spencer Smith, Panic’s last bastion against Gabesexuality, with Jon. They aren’t even touching really, just knees bumping together because Spencer swings his legs when he talks sometimes, keeping rhythm in his head.

Gabe goes to look for Brendon.

 **V. Travis**

Travis has some kind of weird obsession with “treating a lady right,” which, whatever, Gabi isn’t going to complain. He’s cool, and pretty much as tall as her--it’s fucking rough, being six plus, you’re never going to find a guy your height who isn’t like, a basketball player and she doesn’t do jocks (well, mostly). But Travis is tall, with a great smile and some mad skills on the mic, pardon her for maybe swooning a little. She tells Pete this after a couple beers (and a couple more shots), but he just laughs, loud and insane as always, and offers to fetch her smelling salts. She punches him.

But yeah, maybe she has a crush on Travis, but it’s not like anyone would know it. _He_ definitely doesn’t know it, thinks that just because she hangs all over Bill and Pete and Vicky-T, and, well. Just because she’s a slut for physical affection, he seems to think that there’s nothing behind hugs and the odd smacking kiss on the cheek.

He doesn’t treat her like she’s delicate or anything, she wouldn’t be able to crush on a guy like that. It’s worse, because while he treats her like one of the guys, he also _doesn’t_. Specifically, he never pulls _her_ into his lap halfway through a smoky night.

“It’s not a big deal,” Bill says when she mentions it. Well, he kind of gasps it, since she might have her thigh pressed tight against him at the moment. “Travie just isn’t like that.”

“Why not?” Seriously, _why not?_

“I can’t believe you want to talk about this _now_.” She pushes up and he trills a little. “Yeah, whatever, Gabi, he thinks you’re a classy chick or something. His loss.”

Gabi pauses a little at that, just for a moment, then goes along her way. After Bill comes, she spits it on his chest, because she’s _classy like that_. But she doesn’t push it with Travis.


End file.
